


Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Three

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [16]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Riverrun, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Some long-awaited faces are seen at last in Winterfell. Petyr and Sansa ready their plans. Arya is comforted by a brother after leaving her mother behind forever. The Stark sisters are entangled in a strange confrontation with each other.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Three

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Three**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Sansa

Sansa wore her new gown to greet Lord Petyr Baelish at the gate: a high-necked gray samite embroidered with dancing wolves in white thread that opened at the skirt to reveal a ruffled linen underskirt in Tully blue. Harrold had sobered up long enough to put on his best blue-and-silver doublet, and looked as handsome as he ever had. He was as happy to see Petyr as she was, having been very impatient to relocate to Riverrun. The three of them met in the newly rebuilt solar over cheese and red wine to talk about their plans in private. Petyr’s hair was completely white, making him fit into the frozen white setting of Winterfell more than he normally would.

“The first ever Festival of the Father is to be held in exactly one moon cycle in Fairmarket,” Petyr said. “The vendors have signed on. We have musicians coming from all over the Seven Kingdoms, and acrobats, and of course…there will be fireworks! And when it is done, the Lannisters will be slaves to the Iron Bank again.”

“What does the Brotherhood Without Banners say to all this celebrating of the Father?” Sansa asked. She was trying not to count how many sips Harrold took of his wine, but she noticed he was into his second cup while she and Petyr hadn’t yet finished their first.

“The Brotherhood and other followers of Rh’llor will be having their own celebration at exactly the same time, conveniently enough, at Riverrun…and the Lord of the Vale and the Lady of Winterfell are the guests of honor.”

Harrold’s eyes lit up, but Sansa was skeptical. “Lord Baelish, my lord husband is still faithful to the Seven, isn’t that right, darling?”

Harold scoffed. “If it means we’ll be out of this cursed ice castle in a month? Sweet Lord of Light!” He threw back his wine, and slammed the cup on the table. “I’ll renounce the Father, the Mother and all the rest of them!”

“Harrold!” Sansa hadn’t felt the presence of the Gods for a long time, but it still shocked her to hear him say such a thing.

“The only thing left to procure is the feast, so the committee is hosting a hunting contest the week before the celebration. Every hunter will be paid handsomely for bringing a kill worth eating to the feast at Fairmarket, and he who kills the largest beast will win 1000 gold dragons.”

“One thousand? You must be joking,” Sansa said. It was an obscene amount, but she understood what Petyr was doing. The image of driving a knife deep into Cersei’s Lannister’s back flashed in her mind, filling her with a warm and satisfying feeling.

“Oh it’s no joke my lady. You had better believe that every arrow in the realm has a new target…good luck commissioning them for anything else.”

“That’s it,” Harrold said suddenly. “I’m killing the boar…”

“Harrold don’t…”

“Sweetheart… _one thousand gold dragons_. We need the money. Be reasonable!”

“You know what the King says on the matter…and we don’t need money that badly. The King will find…”

“Seven hells…” Harrold tilted his head back in exasperation.

Petyr’s moustache twitched with intrigue. “Is this the boar I saw outside the gate that you speak of? The one that’s practically as large as a crofter’s cottage?”

Harrold spoke before Sansa had a chance. “King Jon’s Wildlings brought it with them. My knights and I could take it down with some good spears and…”

“Your knights and you will do no such thing,” Sansa snapped. “The King forbids it…and what will you say to the knights who want a piece of the prize?”

“I pay their wages so I guess I don’t care what they say.”

“And the King?”

Harrold put his face in his hands. Sansa wanted to dump a cup of wine on his head.

“If I may ask, my lady,” Petyr said. “Why does the king forbid killing this boar? If not for the festival, since you’ll be at Riverrun in any case, then for the cellars of Winterfell, which are rather depleted…or so I hear the smallfolk whispering.”

Sansa stood tall and put on her most dignified air. “The boar is possessed by a Freefolk warrior named Borroq, who fought bravely in the Battle of the Bastards. He was a warg, and passed into his boar as he was killed.”

She knew how ludicrous it sounded, but Jon had been so sincere when he told her. Furthermore, if they defied him, it weakened the North. They had to show the utmost confidence in his rule. None of the Freefolk thought it was so farfetched, after all, and considering what else might be true… Harrold, of course, thought it was as utterly ridiculous as a child’s bedtime story. He took her hand now, but looked at Petyr as he did, prepared to mock her.

“My poor sweet lady wife,” he said, kissing her hand. Sansa resisted the urge to claw at his face. “She’s very tired, Lord Baelish. She works from sunup to sundown to keep this place going, and she has no energy left to be as skeptical as she might be.” Petyr looked sideways at Sansa.

“I am no traitor, my lord,” Harrold went on. “The North is Jon’s, and Jon can bloody well have it…but. I think it’s quite clear that…well. The candle’s lit, but no one is in the tower…if you take my meaning…”

“That’s enough Harrold!” Sansa said sharply, yanking her hand out of his.

“My lord,” Petyr said. “Won’t you be so kind as to see about some of that rather intriguing-smelling ale I see the Wildling women brewing. I think it could add a rather gorgeous Northern flair to the festival.”

Harrold blinked but then clapped his hands together and let out a sigh of relief. “Of course,” he said. “I will see how the fermenting is going, and while I’m at it, I will get us a couple of tankards from the scullery. You two talk…” He gazed pointedly at Petyr as if to say, _talk some sense into her will you_ , before he departed. Sansa shook her head. Once Harrold was well out of hearing, Petyr stepped over to her and took her head in his hands, kissing her deeply. Sansa gave her lips and tongue to him longingly at first, but then quickly pulled away.

“Are you angry with me for staying so long?” Petyr asked. “You know I came back as soon as I could.”

“I’m not angry. I don’t know what I am,” Sansa said, holding back tears.

“I have something for you,” Petyr said, and pulled something from the pocket of his long grey robe. It was a dagger sheathed in deerskin dyed black. He unsheathed it slowly, and it made a ringing, metal sound that gave Sansa a chill.

“This is for you,” he said. He took the point in his hand and gave it to her hilt first. The hilt was flat black, with three huge rubies embedded in settings of shiny gold.

“Oh Petyr…I don’t know what to say,” Sansa said. She knew nothing about daggers.

“The hilt is dragon bone and the blade is Valyrian steel. The last man who wielded it meant to cut your brother’s throat, but your mother fought him off…” Petyr’s voice wavered a little, and his eyes suddenly become wet. He paused and took her hand to kiss it.

“The other dagger…the one that took your mother’s life…I would have stopped that dagger with my own heart if I could have. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most.”

Tears began to soak his face, and Sansa reached up to wipe them with her thumb. When she did, she found herself clutching the knife, her other thumb at the top of its hilt. She had no idea how to hold a dagger, and she had never seen Petyr like this.

“But I am here for her now, to do what she would have done. To protect her children. Anything I can do for you, or for Brandon. Both of you need only ask.[1] Rickon too.”

He gave the sheath to Sansa, and she slid the dagger inside it, glad to put the vicious blade out of sight. The sheath was soft as butter. Sansa pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and began to dry the tears on Petyr’s cheeks.

“You’ve already done so much,” she told him.

“Perhaps, but it’s always been about what I want…”

“What do you want, Petyr?”

“I think you know that,” he said, and took her hand. “Every time I make a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself, will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind, and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me, on the Iron Throne, with you by my side…”

“Petyr!”

He pulled her tightly to him and kissed her hard, so that she tasted the salt of his tears on his lips. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, but then let go and placed her hands against his chest to separate them.

“Petyr…you know I’ve had a similar picture in my head since I was a girl, but…those dreams died with Robb.”

“Yes…but now you have another powerful brother. Word of Jon’s victory will soon spread through the Seven Kingdoms. The past is gone for good. You can languish here, mourning its departure, or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of the Vale, the Riverlands,[2] and if all goes as planned, the Westerlands.”

“The Westerlands…what do you mean?”

Petyr smiled and shook his head. “You Northerners are all facing North, worried about a threat beyond the Wall. Jon and his warging and magic…”

“The Others are real, Petyr. Jon isn’t mad, I know he isn’t…despite what Harrold says.” Sansa desperately wanted to believe her own words, if for no other reason than it meant Harrold was wrong.

“And so he should…fight the Others for the North. As Stannis should fight slavers for the Dragon Queen. But while Jon plays the warrior king, you must fight your own battles.”

“I have to support my brother. Jon, like it or not, _is my king_.”

“Don’t fight in the North, then,” Petry said, his tears completely dried. “Or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind.” He put an arm around Sansa’s waist and pulled her close to him. Sansa felt dizzy, and not only from the wine. “Everyone is your enemy. Everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening, all at once. Live that way, and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before.”[3]

Sansa closed her eyes and let Petyr embrace and kiss her fully, but it wasn’t the thought of Harrold returning that made her finally pull away again. She found herself thinking of Bran, and of what Petyr had said. Was that what Bran’s life was like, she wondered. Could he see her now?

Chapter 2: Arya

The Hound made a good distraction to the guards at the south gate, neither of whom Arya recognized. Perhaps they had been at Winterfell as boys, but there was a good chance not. Either way, it wasn’t likely they would recognize her either. The Hound was a sight such as they’d never seen for sure, and not just due to the size of him, or even his hideous charred face. To top off the absurdity of his appearance was that ridiculous beggar’s robe and the bowl tied around his neck that clanked when he rode. It had been a long quiet ride they had taken together, much like the many rides they had taken when she was a little girl and he was a murdering cunt for the Lannisters. That felt so very long ago with the miles between them now closed. On this final journey, he had distracted her troubled mind with stories about what the brothers on the Island had taught him about violence.

_The scope of violence isn’t in the body of one or several. Its wounds are on all of us. Its wounds live in history eternal._

_What would my friend Micah say_ _to such horseshit?_ Arya had asked of the butcher’s boy the Hound had killed on Queen Cersei’s orders.

_I wear Micah’s wound on my soul. But not just me…this whole cursed country wears it too. And the wounds of all poor smallfolk._

_Clank_ , the bowl had said.

While the Hound kept the guards befuddled, Arya crept around to the west, looking for places she knew one could get a leg up on the wall. This was easier than she would have thought, as the walls had been damaged everywhere, and one could find a number of substantial chinks through which one might take a peek, maybe even crawl on through. She had heard horrible things about Jon on the road North, and if she was going to go through that again, she wanted to be ready. The dead, she had decided, should remain dead. If it was true that Jon’s brothers in the Watch had murdered him, then there was no telling who, or _what_ , he would be now.

She made her way easily into the outer southwest tower, sneaking past the sentry and crawling onto the roof. From there she could use the grappling hook that Gendry had given her to get over the moat to the inner tower. This tower had been burned badly and was filled with rubble, so the sentry watched from atop of pile of charred granite. Arya flattened herself against the outside, and slid her way to a part of the inner wall that had been hollowed out in the fighting. _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow._ Once she crammed herself inside the hollow, she could look over the smithy’s and into the courtyard.

Through a hole in roof, she glimpsed the new smith, a burly balding man she did not know, pounding away at what looked like breastplates with a hammer. Nearby sat a younger man in a dark woolen cap with a nose red from the cold, stretching leather across the insides of a finished breastplate. Arya found herself staring a little too long, daydreaming about Gendry, despite her best efforts not to think of him. He had worn a shiny breastplate with the face of a bull pounded into it, and above that, a heart wreathed in flames painted red and gold. His beard was black and full, and his arms were as big around as her legs, but his eyes were the same blue she remembered. When he had hugged her, she’d had the sensation of being tackled by a bear, but his brothers had called him the Bull.

She couldn’t let herself drift off – not now. If she could get onto the part of the smithy’s roof that still remained, she might get a glimpse of Jon, or be able to hear what was said about him. If not, the Hound had promised to get as much information as he could before they turned him away or tossed him into a cell. The state of the castle made Arya sad, though she’d been told to expect a ruin. The Sept, she was able to see, was in shambles. _Just as well_ , she thought, blinking back a tear. The balcony levels of the guest keep were being rebuilt with new wood, leaving everything looking like a patchwork. The library was completely destroyed, she saw to her great sadness. Between the smithy’s and that wreckage, she could have sworn she saw her sister Sansa. There was indeed a tall woman with a shiny red braid wound around the back of her head, but it couldn’t be her sister. The woman was pulling stockings off a line in the courtyard, and surely Sansa would never be caught doing such a thing. Yet Arya caught a whiff in the air that said it was her sister: rosewater, warm yarn, fresh radishes.

Ignoring that, she shimmied back onto the inner wall and inched east. A loose rock fell, getting the attention of a sentry posted at the southwest inner tower, or what was left of it. But by the time that sentry saw thirteen-year-old Walder Frey sneak past, and float down into the courtyard just outside the inner castle, it was too late. Walder’s skinny body was surprisingly strong, and wonderfully light. _He really would have strangled forever,_ she thought. She ducked behind a cart loaded with hay, then crawled quickly as a cat through the legs of a grey garron and behind the cart he was pulling. She kept with the cart until it arrived at the stables, at which point it appeared she had lost the guards. Then, as Big Walder (who was actually pretty little), she crept quickly over to the lofted area in the guest keep that overlooked the largest part of the courtyard. She remembered how many times her father and mother had stood in that very spot and watched, as she and Bran played Monsters and Maidens, or Robb and Jon practiced archery and swordplay. A toothless old woman Arya didn’t recognize was beating a rug over the balcony, but she either didn’t see well, or didn’t see anything amiss about a strange boy staring idly over the courtyard. Not far away, below where “Walder” stood, a woman scraped the fat from a deerskin stretched over some rough logs with a sharp stone. She was the most beautiful woman Arya had ever seen, but she was dressed in only white and gray furs, so perhaps she was one of the Wildlings Jon had brought from north of the Wall. Her hair was the color of buttercups and very long. The soft sound the skin made when she scraped it made Arya feel suddenly sick.

When her mother, or what had been her mother before, had kissed her cheeks, her skin had felt like cloth when it dries without being washed – yielding but stiff all the same, and it had that smell as well, of rot and damp. She had not cried just then at the sight of Lady Stoneheart’s torn face, the gashes on her yellow cheeks opening and closing slightly with every movement. _My daughter,_ she had hissed. _You are my daughter._ To speak, she’d had to hold the gaping hole in her throat closed with her fingers. Arya had joined the Brotherhood that night, in a rush of blind foolish hope that she and her mother could be a family again. They had captured the sons of Jammos Frey, the young man who Arya had known as Big Walder, and his two little brothers Dickon and Mathis. Walder was barely thirteen, and the twins only ten. They were to be burned at the stake at sunset the night Arya left. While they waited in a cell, Arya had begged the Lady to let her take the two little ones back to Winterfell to be Sansa’s hostages. _The Bastard,_ the Hangwoman had hissed. _Take them, and bring the Bastard to me._ Arya knew she had meant Jon. She agreed, knowing that she would go and never return.

After the Brotherhood had eaten a solemn, salty supper of venison and parsnips, Arya had gone to see Big Walder in his cell. He was still as skinny and dog-faced as she remembered, only now his face was covered in specks as well. He didn’t blubber or beg, but had been as petulant as an opossum, demanding that she free him and promising all manner of reward. Arya had stolen the keys from her mother (?) and released the Hound from the cell where he too was waiting for death. She was considering the same for Walder, when a ruckus could be heard above, telling her she’d been found out. Fortunately, the men of this faction of the Brotherhood, which no longer included Gendry, hadn’t seen the Hound escape and make his way to what would be their mounts. They only knew the keys were gone. Soon Arya could hear them gathered outside the door, demanding that Arya surface with their prisoner. She could smell the sweat-soaked wool of their tunics, the venison grease on their breaths. The rope she had stolen in order to climb to her escape would need to go to a different use. At least Walder wouldn’t burn alive – whatever he had done, he didn’t deserve that.

She had heard the voice of Lem Lemoncloak, one she knew well. “Come out and talk to us Lady Stark!”

“Now that sounds like that scum with the yellow cloak. That murdering Lem and his bloody crew what nabbed me!” Walder had yelped.

“Yes,” Arya had said, tying his hands together.

“Well what would he want?”

Arya had only looked at him, and Walder hung his head. “Now tell me what kind of bloody luck that is…”

“All you’re doing by stalling, little weasel, is making the Lady angrier,” they heard Lem say. “You’ll never make it there until morning, so you might as well come out, and bring Walder Frey the kinslayer, so he can get what he deserves!”

Arya emerged with Walder bound, the length of rope over her shoulder, her sword drawn. “I’m executing this prisoner myself, and I’m doing it by hanging under color of law!”

“If you plan on making it to Winterfell, I would not try for the woods,” Lem said.

“That’s a deal,” she answered. “You loudmouth cocksucker!”

Arya had thrown the rope over the rafter above her head, attached the noose to Walder, and shoved the gaoler’s stool to his ankles with her foot.

“That’s not enough of a drop,” Walder had whined. “I’ll strangle for twenty minutes.”

“I’ll help you with the drop,” said Arya. “Now get up there and say your last words.”

“Do not tether that rope!” Lem and others drew their swords, but they stopped when Lady Stoneheart stepped forward, passing her way through them like a shadow, glaring.

“Do not step off that stool,” Lem said to Walder.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Walder said.

“Last words, Walder,” Arya said, oddly calm.

Walder sputtered a moment, but could only say, “If you’ll help me with my bloody fall!”

“Step forward,” Arya ordered.

Walder took several breaths and shouted, spittle flying from his lips, “Fuck you!”

He stepped forward with a little jump, and surely enough strangled slowly, his legs kicking. Arya had wrapped both arms around his middle and looked her mother, or whatever she was, squarely in the face. Lady Stoneheart shook her head, and for a moment, she had reminded Arya of the old Catelyn Stark, and all the times when she was a little girl, showing up to supper covered in mud. Tears filled her eyes as she leapt up, putting her whole weight onto Walder, and pulled down. The lad’s neck broke with a loud crunch. [4]When it was clear he was dead, the Lady’s men lowered their swords. The Hangwoman held the wound in her throat closed and rasped, _Be gone and do not return. You are no daughter of mine…_

She hadn’t taken the boys to Winterfell but left them with her Uncle Brynden, now Lord of the New Brotherhood, to be taken to their mother. Now that she saw the state of the castle, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to keep them, for it was plain they needed sweeps and stable boys. The courtyard was astir with the effort of making boards, flattening roof tiles, boiling pitch and chiseling granite. Not far from the woman scraping the deerskin, a man with his back to Arya was chopping wood. She could hear the axe, and see splinters flying from a block and smell the raw wood. There was another smell though…one that had shaken her out of the memory of her mother’s horrid voice. It was like moss, rain puddles and sun-warmed scalp. Dog’s ears, ale and fresh hay. The hollow of a tree. It sent a familiar tingling sensation through her – a feeling she hadn’t felt in some time: joy… Finally, the man turned, and she saw Jon.

He was all in black boiled leather, and his face was flecked with pitch. Some scars over one eye were red and angry, but stayed closed as they should. He had a short-trimmed beard, but was otherwise much as she remembered him. Arya’s throat closed as though she was going to cry, but she felt like laughing. Jon stopped chopping and took the woolen cap off his head to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. His sweaty hair underneath was black and short so that it stood on end. A huge black raven sat on the woodpile very near him that squawked, _Snow_ and _King_ alternately. Suddenly Jon stopped and seemed to sniff the air, and before he could turn around, Arya was Arya again. She shouted the first words that came to her mind.

“BIG BROTHER!”

Jon looked up, and immediately his mouth hung open wide enough for a sparrow to fly into. Arya vaulted over the railing, landing just below, and then launched forward toward her brother. He bounded in her direction, catching her in his arms when she leap, and squeezing her tight. She buried her face in his shoulder, happy memories flooding into her along with the scent of sweat, pitch and wood. Jon held her up in the air for a long time, tripping over some chickens that had wandered into the yard in front of him, and knocking over a pitcher of snowmelt atop the woodpile with her foot. The big raven jumped up and down, flapping its wings and hollering _Snow!_ When Jon finally put Arya down, he still didn’t let her go, keeping his arms tightly wrapped around her middle. Arya placed her hands on his face and looked into his grey eyes that were overflowing with tears. She felt the blood pulsing in his temples, the muscles of his cheeks.

“But you’ve no crown…” she said, hoarse with happiness.

“Where is Nymeria? Does she still fetch your smallclothes for you?” Jon asked, his voice deeper and older.

“I had to let her go free,” Arya answered. “Do you still have Ghost?”

He didn’t need to answer, as there was a snuffing sound, and the crowd that had gathered was parting to let the wolf come through. Ghost loped over with a bowed head, standing taller than a horse, a mountain of white fur with eyes like rubies.

Chapter 3: Sansa

Sansa couldn’t sleep. Alys Karstark slept beside her still and quiet as a stone, as she did not snore like Randa or have nightmares like Jeyne Poole, and Harrold slept in the trundle bed the Hound had built. The next morning, Arya and The Hound were off hunting with Jon, his henchman and some of the Wildlings. After breakfast, when her ladies were busying about their chores, Petyr and Bran would go to the solar and play their daily bout of Cyvasse together. Sansa would send Mya Stone along with the hunt, and Harrold and Lothor Brune would head off to Wintertown to see about the new hires. She would send Alys with her husband and Lothor, to keep an eye them, and for a few hours, she would be on her own. She could then sneak into Arya’s unbarred room and find what she was meant to find.

Her first night home, Arya had slept in Sansa’s bed with her, since her own room was crowded with supplies brought from town that hadn’t been put away. Harrold slept in Lothor’s room in the guest keep, and Jeyne had taken the trundle. The sisters were both quite drunk, having made merry in celebration of the family’s reunion. There had been pork sausage stew with onion and carrot, lumps of fresh white cheese and oat biscuits, baked apples with brown sugar, and capons with rosemary and sage, which Arya dressed and basted herself. No one had talked about how the feast was too decadent for a castle in their condition. No one talked about Ramsay Bolton or Cersei Lannister. Father came up quote often, and Rickon, but not Mother or Robb. Sansa thought she saw Lord Stannis smile, and Harrold was pleasant and told funny jokes. Even the Hound had seemed happy. Only Bran sat unsettlingly quiet. Jon seemed to forget he was a king, pouring Arya’s cup full of ale for her, kissing his ugly raven on the head when it spoke softly to him, hanging his crownless drunken head. He never put the crown on – maybe he had lost the thing.

Arya hadn’t slept in a bed since she left King’s Landing, she told Sansa. When Sansa asked her what she had been doing in a place so dangerous for their family, Arya had said, _no one need know._ Someday perhaps they would tell each other all of the things they had been through since they left home that fateful day, but this was not the day. Instead, they whispered into the night about all the doings of the castle and the new people, laying face to face in the candlelight. Arya wore one of Jeyne’s nightdresses, since she had none of her own. She had asked about the Eyrie, and being married to the Imp, which is what many called Lord Tyrion. Sansa wanted to know about her days as a mummer, and her adventures with the Hound. As it turned out, her time with the Hound was among the least horrible she had spent after leaving the city. Sansa told her about the night Stannis stormed the Capital, when the Hound had offered to take her away, and had made her sing him a song.

“What song did you sing him?” Arya had asked.

Sansa had paused, remembering. “Actually the Mother’s Hymn was all I could think of. Not quite appropriate I suppose.”

Arya had giggled, and it occurred to Sansa that she was beautiful. She reached over and stroked her sister’s brown hair with two fingers.

“You’re so pretty…”

Arya had rolled her eyes at that. “Shut up.”

“You are. You know how you looked just then? You looked like Margeary Tyrell, the little rose…you look very pretty, just like her…[5]”

“I played her in a production once…”

They fell asleep, and late in the night, Jeyne Poole had begun to cry and yelp in the trundle bed. Sansa had risen and crawled in next to her, soothing and shushing her. Arya was so exhausted she never even woke up. After that night, Arya slept in her own room with Mya, whom Sansa had decided to lend her, despite her insistence that she needed no ladies of her own. Sansa had Randa, Jeyne, _and_ Alys now, and Arya seemed a better fit for Mya Stone anyway. They both loved riding and swearing. They both kept their hair cropped to the shoulders, and neither ever wore a gown. The next few days Arya had busied herself with the cleanup, and Sansa had to admit Arya was a much better housekeeper than she was. She had always been untidy and a lover of dirt, but suddenly, when it came to the order of the kitchen, she was downright fastidious. Sansa had heard her more than once, correcting the young scullions they had hired on their mopping. _No not like that, from side to side, and walk backward as you go. Not that way…you’ll mop yourself into a corner!_ Sansa had found her scrubbing pots one afternoon with sweaty effort, her hair knotted on top of her head. _Do you believe that our King and Queen have been eating food cooked in this?_ She held up one of the bigger copper pots that had a coating of black sludge on the bottom. _Queen? What Queen,_ Sansa had asked, but Arya had acted as though she misheard.

They were sisters still, but there had always been a chasm between them. It was still there, gaping, and they did not know the way to bridge it. Sansa actually spent more time talking to the Hound. He was staying in a tent in the inner courtyard, having bluntly refused a room in the keep. As a begging brother, taking advantage of such accommodations was against his holy vows. He had meant to leave soon after he arrived with Arya to continue his wanderings and, Sansa suspected, to protect some smallfolk from his own brethren who had been brutalizing them throughout the Kingdoms in the name of the Seven. However, each time he got ready to go, Sansa found something needed done – something urgent that needed a strong, huge hand. Their Wintertown man had a backache, so could he run the pulley at the southeast tower rebuild? The walls for the new glass garden were going up, and couldn’t he stay and take a wall, as it was such a delicate undertaking? There seemed to be a preponderance of hires falling ill or developing rheumatism, and the Hound was the only acceptable replacement for each of them. One day, she had asked if the Hound might haul the wood for the morning fires.

“The King seems quote tired,” she had said. “…and we all think he’s overworked…”

“Close that flap will you.”

The Hound had given her a dour look as he said it, and Sansa’s heart commenced to beating double time, but she turned and closed the flap to his tent anyway.

“Is something wrong Ser Sandor?”

“You tell me, and it’s Brother not Ser.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Brother.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Why no, of course not…I…” She had stammered a little, and the hair stood up on her scalp. The tent smelled of night sweat, ale and skin. It made her dizzy.

“What is Baelish doing here, really?”

“I told you…he and the Knights of the Vale are our guests until the castle is secure. You know Lord Stannis is sailing for Essos…”

“Guests.”

The Hound moved unbearably close to her, but Sansa stood stock-still. In her mind, she remembered him kissing her the night she sang him a song, but usually that image was shifting and illegible. She could always feel his lips on hers and smell his breath against her cheeks, but was it all her imagination? Had it happened, or had she dreamt it?

She opened her lips just slightly, ready to receive his kiss again, but the Hound had only moved past her and reopened the flap to the tent.

“I’ll help with the wood, little bird. Go tell the King to put his feet up.”

She had wanted to stay there. She had wanted to say something else, but the words became a jumble in her head. The Hound rested a huge hand on her shoulder – so very gently.

“Seven blessings to you,” he said.

She left the tent, and the Hound had made no move to leave Winterfell since then. Sansa feared pregnancy again, because she had been with Petyr twice – once in the broken tower and once in a room in the first keep that was unoccupied. Then she had let Harrold into her bed twice, as if that might somehow cancel out her own infidelity, though she knew she was a bad, inconstant woman.[6] Petyr told her not to worry, that soon they could be together, and their child would be a great prince of the realm, but he became so cryptic when she tried to get him to talk about Riverrun. _What happened there…I want you to tell me!_ But Petyr only whispered, _my love. Soon my love…_ He had given Bran a beautiful Cyvasse set as a gift, with a board of painted Oak and pieces of obsidian and moonstone. They played after they broke their fast, sometimes for up to three hours. If Bran knew anything about Aunt Lysa’s death, or their part in King Joffrey’s murder, he didn’t let on. Perhaps he did know everything all at once, both in the past and the present, and maybe he could only hold very few visions in his mind at any given moment. Perhaps he knew all about it, but thought it better not to tell.

Sansa was glad for Petyr anyway, because Arya and Jon spent so little time with Bran, which she thought was disgraceful. True, Bran was changed, and there was something cold and eerie about his demeanor, but who could blame him? He too had seen the Others. Arya hadn’t been as cold as Jon when she greeted him, but it was close. How embarrassed Sansa had been when Jon backed off and away after hugging him! She had patted Bran sympathetically, saying, _I’m sure he’s glad to have you back. He doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s just that…he’s had a hard time…just…a very bad time._ Of course, she needn’t have told _him_ that. Now Petyr was saying that there was rumor of a murderer terrorizing King’s Landing, killing members of the city watch and even men of the court, and the description was of a young woman with brown hair. _Some say she’s buxom and long-legged, but others say she’s just the opposite_ , Petyr had told her. _They call her Mercy of King’s Landing._ Bodies had been found with their faces flayed, and other grisly injuries. Arya wouldn’t talk of King’s Landing and what she was doing there, and Bran told Petyr she had “a list of names, most of whom are dead already,” though he didn’t elaborate. Then Petyr told Sansa he’d seen Arya hiding a glass bottle high on the shelf in the kitchen where the mixing bowls were kept. _Tears of Lys,_ Petyr said. _Without question._ She did not ask how he knew so confidently.

Arya and Jon practiced in the courtyard every day at archery and swords. Sometimes, Sansa and her ladies watched from a balcony as they fought ferociously. Many an occasion, the entire castle stopped working and watched them. Usually when they were done, they crawled rather than walked away, groaning with their soreness, from the circle they had dug in with their feet. Arya had always enjoyed fighting and swords. Jon had given her a tiny sword she called “Needle” before they left home, and she had practiced with a Braavosi swordsman every day when they were living in the Red Keep. Ser Meryn Trant, a vile man in Joffrey’s Kingsguard, had killed her master when they imprisoned their father. It was said that Mercy of King’s Landing murdered Meryn Trant, for he had not been seen in months.

Sansa lay awake and wondered what the young Targaryen prince called Griff would think of them: a ruined castle filled with Wildlings, giants, direwolves, giant boars, and talking birds. _Welcome prince Aegon…don’t mind our king. He wears no crown because he thinks it looks haughty…yours is lovely of course. He’s back from the dead by the way, and is in the midst of fighting other dead people…nothing mad about that. Let me introduce my brother, a crippled boy who has visions, and my sister, a pretty girl who has been an assassin and may be a murderer still…_ It was entirely too much, and the prince would be there any day. At least Lord Stannis had been good enough to make himself scarce at last.

She looked over at Alys’s sleeping face, the eyeballs rolling around underneath her lids. Sansa wished she could sleep so soundly with troubles on her mind. Alys had considered leaving with Stannis and his men, but thought better of it. She was with child, and afraid to brave the sea journey, even if the coming winter was more threatening. Two days after they’d gone however, she had lost the baby, and was ill for several days. She was very stoic about being a widow so prematurely and about the miscarriage, which made Sansa admire her. Alys distracted herself by helping with the cleanup and other chores as Sansa, Jon and Arya had. When Sansa had told her what Harrold thought of that, Alys had said something Sansa thought very wise: _Lords such as him do not have to clean up the messes they make, but servants have to clean up their own messes, and their Lords’ messes in the bargain. In that way, they are like children, they do not have to think ahead, or worry about the consequences of what they do_.[7]

Sansa had tried so hard to talk to Arya, but they found themselves at loggerheads, and why shouldn’t they? Both had secrets they weren’t telling the other. Who could a woman be honest with if not her own sister? Did Jon marry Val and tell Arya but not her? Clearly, each sister felt the other didn’t understand – that she’d be judged. Their latest quibble had been over some complaint lodged to Sansa by Lord Glover, whose host had remained as a guest to help with the reconstruction. Sansa had thought nothing of it at the time. She was thankful for their help, and didn’t see the harm in what he had said. Arya, however, must have been eavesdropping. Sansa had been doing some bookkeeping in her room, which was the only place quiet enough, as sums were never her strong suit, and Arya had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She made an unbidden remark about the fact that Sansa and Harrold had taken the Lord’s quarters.

“Shouldn’t the King sleep here?”

“Jon prefers his old room…he said as much,” Sansa had said. “What of it?”

Arya had smirked in response. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” Sansa said, annoyed.

“Fine…I was just think that you always did like nice things. They made you feel better than everyone else.”

Sansa had frowned. Arya said, “You had a way out of that one by the way…but you didn’t take it, did you?”

“I do want you to talk to me.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Sansa had slammed the ledger shut. “I do so…clearly something is on your mind. Why don’t you just say it?”

“Why did you take Glover’s complaint this morning?”

Sansa had blinked and resisted the urge to call her a devious little spy. “I’ve taken it as part of my duties to field some complaints…otherwise Jon would have time for nothing else.”

“Is it your duty to hear treason and not report it?”

“What treason?”

“He all but said Jon was a madman, and you hardly defended him.”

“He said no such thing…you’re twisting the man’s words. At any rate, I clearly told him I believed in the army of the dead and that I had great confidence in Jon’s decisions. _Those_ were _my_ words…”

“Well you’re a terrible actress.”

Sansa had stood up, throwing down her quill in anger. “Look who’s the know-it-all these days! Arya Stark everyone: _she acts, she cleans, she cooks better than anyone_ …”

Arya had got the best of her. Arya had remained quite calm, and here was Sansa, blowing her top again.

“You were about as convincing as a whore in an ivory gown, that’s all…”

“I wasn’t acting!”

“Certainly weren’t…Look if you don’t believe Jon about the Others, I understand that. It does sound like nonsense. But you can’t let it show…”

_“I do believe him!”_

“Now, now, don’t get upset…”

Sansa had sat back down in a huff. Arya stepped over slowly and stood behind her. Gently, she placed her hands on Sansa’s shoulders, and began to rub them, squeezing and pinching along the tendon and up to her neck. Sansa felt nervous, but admittedly it felt good. Arya had then told her about a game she had played among the Faceless Men called the “Game of Faces,” in which they asked each other questions. If they lied, and the other knew it, then they lost. She wouldn’t say what happened to the loser, only that the last person to lose the game to her hadn’t fared well.

“I have a question,” Sansa had said. “Did Jon tell you he and Val were married?”

Arya stopped rubbing. She leaned over and sniffed Sansa’s head, which made Sansa very uncomfortable. “That, big sister, is a clever way to phrase that question so that you can find the answer without telling me what you know. Very clever.”

She began rubbing again, her thumbs rotating at the point on either side of Sansa’s spine.

“What I will tell you, and this is a secret too, is that Lord Baelish gave me a present.”

Sansa spun around to say, “What? When?”

“Shhh, now hold on, you’re very tense,” Arya said, turning her back around by the shoulders. “It’s a very special present. I’ll show it to you…”

“I play a game too, you know,” Sansa said, pouting angrily. “It’s called ‘What’s the Worst.’ I made it up. It’s a bit like yours, but it’s solitary. I ask questions, and then I try to guess the answer.”

“Example?”

“For example, what’s the worst possible reason my sister could have been in King’s Landing of all places?”

There was a heavy pause.

“Let me try,” Arya said. “What’s the worst reason Littlefinger could be here in Winterfell, of all places? Helping Jon, of all people?”[8]

“What did Petyr give you?”

“Let’s see if you can act, after all. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I’ll be going on the hunt with the King and Princess Val, and I’ll leave my room unlocked. Go in and look under the mattress, and you’ll find what Littlefinger gave me. Only don’t go directly there…rummage around a bit, as if you don’t know where it is. Be convincing now! Imagine someone is watching.”

Sansa was shivering. “ _Is_ someone watching?”

“Tomorrow, just after breakfast.”

Arya stopped rubbing and began to walk out.

“Wait,” Sansa said. “What am I looking for?”

Arya smiled. “I think it will play better if you don’t know…” Then she left.

When dawn seeped into the windows that morning, Sansa had hardly slept a single wink. Arya helped make them all a breakfast of bread and butter with gooseberry jam, and poached eggs. After they all ate, and everyone had gone, Sansa helped carry Bran into the solar so that he and Petyr could play their game. She told them she was going to lie down in her room for a while, as she hadn’t slept much – the last part wasn’t a lie at least. When she went to her room, she collected the dagger Petyr had given her, unsheathed, and slipped into a pocket she had sewn into her gown. She took a breath, and silently crept into Arya’s room. She didn’t know how anyone could possibly be watching, but she rustled some parchments around on the desk, and opened and closed a couple of drawers in the bureau anyway. Then she went to the mattress and lifted it up. When she did, a little scroll appeared, and the air from the mattress being pulled up lifted it out and onto the floor. Sansa picked it up and unraveled it. It was her own handwriting. When she saw the words, her breath caught in her throat. 

_Robb,_

_I write to you today with heavy heart. Our good king Robert is dead, killed from wounds he took on a hunt. Father has been charged with treason, as he conspired with Robert’s brother against my beloved Joffrey in an attempt to steal his throne. The Lannisters are treating me well, and providing me with every comfort. I beg of you to come to King’s Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey, and forego any conflict between the great houses of Lannister and Stark._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sansa **[9]**_

The eggs and gooseberry jam did cartwheels in Sansa’s stomach, as she remembered the horrible day she wrote this letter. The smell of Queen Cersei’s perfume and the wine on her breath when she had looked over her shoulder. Maester Pycelle’s chain clinking ever so softly. Varys the eunuch had been there…and so had Petyr. _I was only a child…I didn’t mean a word – I didn’t._

“Such pretty handwriting…”

The sound of Arya’s voice startled Sansa so badly that she actually jumped and yelped as she spun around. Her hand went to the pocket of her gown involuntarily. Arya slowly walked into the room, sliding her gloved finger along the stones in the wall as she went.

“What are you doing in here?” Arya asked.

Sansa was trembling. She was about to say, _you told me to come here_ , but she stopped herself. “I…I wanted to talk to you…” Was this some intricate way of avoiding answering her question about Jon and Val? Or something worse?

“All right. Let’s talk. What would you like to talk about?”

“I…I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“Maybe it was about Jon. Maybe it was about him. I think we should discuss Jon. I think we should discuss what should be done about him What _should_ be done about him?”

Arya moved slowly closer to Sansa, making Sansa instinctively back away. “I…I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa stammered.

“Now I don’t think that’s true,” said Arya. “I think you have very definite ideas about what should be _done_ with _Jon_ , and I’d like to know what they are!”[10]

“Arya, please… _where did you get that letter_?”

“I found it.”

“ _How?”_ Sansa realized she was shrieking.

“Let’s just say it came from Riverrun. A very special delivery.”

Sansa was flat against the wall now. Inside her pocket, she clutched the hilt of the dagger in a sweaty hand. “I have hundreds of men here,” she said. “All loyal to me.”

“They’re not here now.”

Sansa began to weep.

“I know,” Arya said. “Let’s play the ‘Game of Faces’.”

“I’d rather not…”

“What do you think about Jon being king? Is there perhaps someone else you think should rule the North?”

“I am loyal to Jon. He is my king. Now and always!”

“It’s a funny thing,” Arya said. She picked up the scroll and fondled it. “Both you and I wanted to be someone else when we were young. You wanted to be a queen. To sit next to a handsome young king on the Iron Throne. I wanted to be a knight – to fight with my father and brothers in battle. The world doesn’t let girls decide what they can be…but you – you could still be queen. Is that what you hope?”

“Stop it,” Sansa sobbed.

“I can choose too. Thanks to the Faceless Men and my training, I can become someone else. Speak in their voice, live in their skin. I could even become you…or Jon.”

“ _Oh Arya, what are you talking about?”_

“I wonder what it would feel like – to rule the North. To rule the Seven Kingdoms. I could find out. All I would need to do is kill you and take your face…”[11]

Sansa had had enough. She felt pressure on her bladder. She drew the dagger from her pocket and held it aloft, the dagger pointed at her sister.

“Don’t come near me!”

Arya’s stance widened, and she drew her sword, waiting. Sansa insides felt like they were falling. The arm that held the dagger shook violently. Then she let it fall, and turned the dagger so that the hilt was toward Arya, inviting her to take it.

“Go on then,” she said. “Do what you will. But don’t hurt the King… don’t hurt Jon – I beg you!”[12]

Arya sheathed her sword, her grey eyes full of wonderment. Very gently, she took the dagger from Sansa, and backing away, slipped it into her belt. She smiled and nodded, as if in approval. As she walked backward out of the room, she clapped her hands together silently and bowed. Only when she was truly gone out did Sansa breathe again.

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 4: “The Spoils of War,” HBO, 2017.

[2] Benioff & Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 10: “The Winds of Winter,” HBO, 2016.

[3] Benioff & Weiss, Game of Thrones, Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice,” HBO, 2017.

[4] Milch, David. _Deadwood_ , Season 1, Episode 1: “Deadwood,” HBO, 2004.

[5] French, Dawn and Jennifer Saunders, _Absolutely Fabulous_ , Season 3, Episode 3: “Sex,” BBC, 1995.

[6] Coppola, Francis Ford. _Bram Stoker’s Dracula_ , Columbia Pictures, 1992.

[7] Atwood, Margaret. _Alias Grace_. New York: Doubleday, 1996. 214.

[8] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 5: “Eastwatch,” HBO, 2017.

[9] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 6: “The Dragon and the Wolf,” HBO, 2017.

[10] Kubrick, Stanley. _The Shining_ , Warner Bros., 1980.

[11] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 6: “The Dragon and the Wolf,” HBO, 2017

[12] Figgis, Mike. _Leaving Las Vegas_ , Lumiere Pictures, 1995.


End file.
